As a pregnant lady, I am used to unsolicited advice and comments of a highly-personal nature. A few weeks ago, the woman stocking shelves at Sainsbury's grocery store would not let me anywhere near the peanut butter until she finished describing the increasingly harrowing birth stories of her children - each apparently larger than the last - and leaving me with her top tips for perineal massage. My midwife told me last week as I was reviewing MY birth plan that having an epidural would lessen my "sense of accomplishment" (I now have a new midwife). And formerly all-business colleagues tell me on a regular basis to go home, have a curry and/or have sex with my boyfriend. But today, as I moved "operation get ready for delivery" from the home (this morning's nursery prep drew to a close when I actually drew blood trying to seal off the draft from the fireplace by jamming pieces of adorably-decorated cardboard in openings) to the spa, I received the strangest one yet when the aesthetician felt it fitting to wax poetic - if you will pardon the pun - about the cleanliness of my lady area. Apparently this is unusual in pregnant ladies. I did not know that... and while grateful for the compliment, sort of wish I still didn't.